


Null and Void

by Hayato (TheLennyBunny)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multi, Other, Post-Season/Series 01, THE MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IS NOT TO ANYONE WHO DOESNT DESERVE IT, explicit spoilers for season/series 04, like major fhhd, takes canon and throws it in the dishwasher, the avatar menagerie isnt composed of complete assholes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLennyBunny/pseuds/Hayato
Summary: The book is- something Jon picks up out of dull curiosity, the sort that rises from there being nothing else better to do after a solid day of ennui burning you out. It's a book. It's more interesting than the statement in front of him or the notes about the tunnels or the paranoia that's left him exhausted and apathetic for the nth day in a row.He reads the book.
Relationships: Comfort polycule, various
Comments: 33
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!! As I'm starting the fifth chapter I went and added vague relationship tags- it'll be up in the air frankly until I write the scene a certain branch becomes relevant, but to be clear:  
> •the romance WILL NOT be the ultimate focus  
> •currently cemented ones to expect are: Tim, martin, and Jon in a wibbly wobbly threesome, elias getting Attached to Jon, and Tim getting along /smashingly with Georgie and melanie, though if it's a full triangle? V?? Dunno yet, and basira/daisy because I'm gay  
> •sorry to current readers looking for pure gen- I am, at best, a fucking mess at planning stories that stretch longer than two chapters

Jon reads the book because he, as a thirty year-old man, had regressed to being a dumbshit arrogant eight year-old again. It’s going onto six in the evening, he’s spent the past five hours dealing with a statement about, of all things, someone supposedly  _ made of water _ that tried to drown the witness on a dock, and Tim and Martin have been up to their usual hijinks which are just  _ oh-so fun _ when he’s still trying to one-hundred percent eliminate them as suspects. And then, of course. The book had appeared.

Literally appeared, he’s no clue where it came from. He’d gotten a vague post-it about it being from the police cleanup and that’s it. It's got a strange image on it of what looks like a box and what may or may not be something dead inside the box, and it reads as complete nonsense to him when he cracks it open on impulse. Literal nonsense, not some philosophy student's essay, strings of letters he can barely pronounce even in his mind. But when he's done just skimming the first page, there's- it's like a weight's been removed from his shoulders, it's like someone took an ice pick to his head, scooped out his insides, turned everything sideways and he stares blankly at the wall as he tries to adjust. He has no idea what the hell has just happened. Sitting and doing nothing seems like a nice enough option, since he already feels like he’s done that the whole day.

And then, dimly, he can hear screaming. It's not pleasant. It sounds like Joyce, the front-desk girl that directs every poor sop that wanders in with a smile that says she hopes you piss yourself and go away. Why is she screaming?

He really, really hopes it is not, in fact, another fucking monster. Jane Prentiss was enough thank you, he's enough issues looking for Gertrude's killer whomever-that-may-be and WHY is his head hurting so much when he took. Five? Six? He had taken a lot of ibuprofen earlier. It had seemed like a good idea.

Jon gets an answer when Tim and Martin burst in through his door screaming, mainly because Sasha is Not Screaming but twisting into a horrfiying abomination on the floor and  _ that is not Sasha what the fUCK IS THAT WHY ARE ITS LIMBS LIKE THAT OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD- _

A lot happens within about five minutes, if they’re generous with timing. The thing that is Not Sasha promptly dies when Jon screeches and throws what is technically a law book but more aptly called a Bludgeon at it, square at its head. It hadn't seemed like it had much long for this world anyways. Martin and Tim are still screaming, Tim mainly at Jon about whatever the fuck that is/was/ _ ”Did you just fucking kill Sasha?” “THAT WAS VERY CLEARLY NOT SASHA,”  _ while Martin is doing it at the universe which is quite understandable.

And then of course, while they're having their breakdowns, Elias wanders down the stairs. Falls down more like, considering he narrowly misses tripping and cracking his skull on the floor. And. He.

Jon can see why Joyce was screaming. It must not have been pleasant seeing your boss carve his eyes out.

Their screaming- his at least- peters out and Tim throws an arm out in front of them on instinct, a paltry-if-appreciated gesture to keep them safe. Jon does not have anymore law books on him; he’d only had the first to check and see if there were any loopholes that would make killing an old woman appealing. Elias can’t see any of their posturing and sheer terror, but he definitely knows where they are considering how he turns and grins at what is technically Martin’s shoulder.

“Hello, boys,” Says Elias in an accent  _ significantly more Liverpool than he had half an hour ago.  _ Jon makes a strangled noise and thinks he sees the Not-Sasha twitch out of the corner of his eye, turning it into a whimper. “Would one’f you like to tell me who just pulled that little trick?”

“Tr-trick? Sorry, are you feel-”  _ No he was not feeling alright his fucking eyes are gone,  _ they all furiously Did Not think- “What’s happening right now? Why did- why was Sasha suddenly a  _ bloody monster? _ ”

“Not you then, though good job not turning into a gibberin’ mess,” Elias commends, tilting his head at Martin like he’s just done a particularly impressive bar stunt and sounding creepily sincere. “Thinkin’ of it- it was probably you, wasn’t it Jonny?”

And then all eyes are on him, and he shrinks back and back, he can’t make himself small enough. Abruptly, suddenly, Jon realises he’s still got the damn book in his hand and goes to toss it as far away as he can but- something’s up, something is  _ obviously fucking up _ , and he doesn’t know what will happen. He tightens his grip.

“All I did was skim a page,” He mumbles weakly, “It was in with Gertrude’s old tapes- the  _ police  _ handled it-” Oh, Elias is sitting down now. He looks like he should be woozy or passing out with how much blood’s on him, honestly, but he’s just… chipper as can be, or keeping a stiff upper lip. Tim’s stiffened up in the way that means there’s either a storm or he’s terrified, and both are decent guesses. 

“Well, answer your first question, Sasha’s dead and has been since that little attack,” Elias says like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just punched the air out of all of them, “There’s a table in Storage, nasty thing was cooped up in it and she got close enough for it to strike. That’s what’s on the floor, right there.” He keeps patting his clothes, what- oh. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Right, of course, just go ahead and  _ smoke _ \- “Second, well. That little book in your hand, Jon, is an amazing little fuck you from, oh, probably the Web, it’s subtle enough not to hurt. It’s sort of…” He takes a drag, exhaling as he waves a hand around.

“Sasha’s dead?” Oh, Tim. No, Jon can’t see him as being willing to kill Gertrude. He can’t see either of them really, but his sheer terror  _ had  _ been directed at the possible murderer at his workplace less than ten minutes ago.

“Yeah, sorry,” Elias replies, again sounding sincere which is disturbing for reasons  _ outside  _ the sunken-in eyelids, inhaling again though he doesn’t look satisfied with it. “The book, though. It’s sort of a, black box? Read it, keep it on you, and you make a decent-sized space where nothing oogie-boogie-fuck-you can so much as breathe in your direction.”

Ooogie-boogie-

Oh.

Jon looks at the Not-Sasha, tongues at the feeling of emptiness that’s hanging in his chest still, and looks back at Elias. He grins like a knife, notes of anger-grief-exhaustion in his expression. A free hand drifts up and wipes away some of the drying blood.

Elias, who had torn out his eyes the moment any… influence was taken away. Jon feels his breath shake in his lungs as he steps forward, pressing against Tim’s arm.

“Why did you  _ blind  _ yourself?”

Elias breathes the cigarette in deep before dropping it and smothering it with his foot. There’s sirens in the distance, loud enough he can hear. Joyce must have called 999. Right now, Elias is looking in his direction with the deepest pity though. He doesn’t care about the sirens. He doesn’t care about the pain he must be in.

“Oh, Jon. There’s a lot worse things than little miss worm in this building alone, and I- I fucking  _ got rid  _ of one of them, for everyone’s sake. You wouldn't believe the shit I've seen, trapped behind those goddamn eyes with no one to help, not even able to scream- but tha's not important, I can have my meltdown later, it's done, I'm free.

“I’m sorry though, fuck am I, that it’s at the cost of you, the moment you let go of that book.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jon does not let go of the book. It is a challenge in between the paramedics ushering in and out and the subsequent questioning from Sectioners that ensues, and the mental breakdown in motion when they go upstairs and see how Joyce is doing. Elias-that-isn’t leaves a note that seemingly comes from the void for the officials that are, deservedly, losing their shit just slightly, and the officers leave once they read. Jon does and doesn’t want to know what was on it, and just how he wrote it with no eyes.

It leaves him, Tim, and Martin with a monstrous corpse, a disturbed Institute, and a book which, apparently, Jon cannot let go of without something bad happening. The three of them have taken refuge in the breakroom with over-brewed tea. He’s a bit distant from the fact right now, emotionally. Martin doesn’t address the elephant. Tim takes it by the trunk and tries to do the tango with it.

“What do you think’ll happen?” The gangly man peers at the book like it’s a hissing cat. “Elias said it makes something like a forcefield, yeah?”

“That wasn’t Elias,” Jon says absently. He’s looking at it himself. The text inside still doesn’t make sense and seems to warp the longer he looks at it, devolving into nonsense and distorted lines and curves. There are no pictures and no infamous plaque.

“If it wasn’t Elias, who do you think that was in- that was talking?” Martin pipes up. He’s wringing his hands, anxious as usual. “He said- was he being  _ possessed?” _

“I think that’s less important than whatever is going to happen to Dipshit Mcgee here if he drops this thing-”

“Wh- Tim!”

“He picked up a mysterious murder book after he did his  _ research thesis  _ on mysterious murder books!” Tim’s got an elbow on Jon’s shoulder, casual, using him like an armrest like he’d started back in Research. How long had it been since Jon had been close enough for him to try?  _ It is _ , he thinks idly,  _ a very good thing I hadn’t gotten around to the stakeouts yet.  _ He closes the book, feels the cover. It’s generic flatboard, a deep green in colour. Nothing remarkable. Dull, more like.

“-Same-”

“-neurotic for weeks, you’ve noticed it too-”

“-all- stressed-”

There is, Jon muses, something very irritating about everyone being taller than you. It means that occasionally, they treat you as a set piece rather than the topic of conversation just because you can’t easily get in their face. He glances at both of the men, still floating in that bubble of shock and sighs very quietly. It’s going to happen sooner or later. 

Right at the peak of Tim saying something about compensation and counselling, Jon throws the book.

* * *

An analogy that may be appropriate, at times, is that of a door. Picture a human as having each their own, nestled in their being, and usually undisturbed until their Death. Sometimes, by misfortune or their own choice, the door is knocked upon, or the knob turned, or the hinges metaphorically melted with a metaphorical flamethrower and the whole thing tossed away. Jon imagines his own would have been slowly creaked open until he noticed, until he couldn’t shut it himself anymore.

The flood of awareness and knowledge and  _ Knowing  _ that follows dropping the book is more akin to a house in a hurricane, battering from all sides and encompassing and warping changing  _ damaging  _ but he is lucky, in a sense. His home, his being, does not become sublimated.

He Understands what Elias Bouchard meant now. He really quite wishes he didn’t, and also that he had the time to go into the tunnels and pour bleach into fucking Jonah Magnus’ eyesockets. That he’d found the book months earlier, before the Corruption’s attack. 

Pointless wishes, really.

* * *

When Jonathan Sims comes to, he’s resting on the dusty floor of the Magnus’ Institute’s breakroom and there is yelling above him. He knows it’s dusty because the cleaners view it as one of the least problematic areas and really, is a breakroom as important as the libraries that get warped because of Leitners or the Research department that routinely covers the walls in unpleasant things? Farid Wade viewed as an oasis in the middle of a very shitty desert because the most you’ll find is expired food and someone crying at the table which-

Stop. Pause. Jon breathes in, deep and loud. Breathes out. In, out. No need for CPR now Martin, go ahead and calm down,  _ you’re not inadequate for panicking over a medical emergency, no need to spiral- _

“Ow,” Jon says. Tim makes a strangled noise and slumps like his strings have been cut, which is a thought Jon regrets having thanks to the deluge of Information it gives him on Daniel and the Circus and mannequins, “I see what he meant now.”

“ _ Do you? _ ” Martin screeches, “Because it seems like you went and decided to be a bloody idiot for no reason Jonathan Sims!”

“You sound like my grandmother.”

There are multiple strangled noises. Jon ignores them in favor of sitting up and taking stock, carefully mapping his body out. No new limbs or bulk, not with the Eye, but one could never be too sure what would happen; one could always end up like that poor bastard off in Wien.

Then he blinks, which happens to open his eyes. All of them. They’re like a crescent on his face now, Martin and Tim’s screams are very, very loud, and Jon is very glad most the staff is gone after their director’s sudden self-mutilation. 

It may as fucking well go like this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen sometimes u just go through the emotional equivalent of a blender

“It’s sort of like colours, if you want to parse it down to something understandable,” Jon says absently, because Gerry really had the right idea on how to paint-  _ ha _ \- the scope of the Entities. “You’ve got basic colours and then you can mix them or change their hues and tints and get something new. People will argue over whether or not it’s a blue or green they’re looking at, or if the name’s maroon or navy red, if it’s a warm or cool hue, ad infinitum. It doesn’t change it’s a colour. In this case, it doesn’t change that it’s an Entity.”

Tim glares suspiciously around the room and its Many Emblems and then at Jon. He’s been doing a lot ever since they left the Archives while Martin’s been overly paranoid, which are fair responses, really. 

He avoids looking right at Jon’s face though, which hurts a little but not a lot because Jon made sure to keep all but his original eyes closed and the shock of being obliterated and reformed in a nanosecond hasn't worn off yet. Martin just looks slightly nauseous.

“Please tell me we don’t serve some terrifying monster god.”

“You don’t serve a terrifying monster god,” Jon parrots, jiggling a desk drawer. Damn thing’s locked and the key is too far away to be convenient. He won’t be too broken up about Jon lockpicking it though, so he goes ahead and makes use of one of his hairpins. 

“You’re not actually being reassuring, Jon!”

“That’d be the supernatural equivalent of 900 miligrams of zoloft keeping my head on,” Jon shoots back, and Tim makes a noise that might have been a laugh if he didn’t bite his tongue maybe on purpose, maybe on accident. “ _ Technically _ , you two don’t. I do, though. And you work for me.” 

There’s nothing useful in the drawer, but Jon still takes all the pens with plans to melt the nibs later. They’re like the energy of all smug, entitled RP jackasses who want to act like they don’t go down to the Tescos for milk at nine too condensed into malevolent, expensive form. They’re also what was used to sign off on every piece of paperwork Jon had to go through for the past handful of years. He fucking hates these pens.

He grabs the boxes shittily hidden by Magnus next even though he knows everything on the tapes, because they belong in the Archives and  _ not  _ having them there is like having a crick in his neck that won’t leave no matter how many times he jerks his head. Martin takes one without argument when Jon puts it in his hands. Tim takes one with argument and a second without because Jon accidentally opens two of his eyes. He doesn’t very much like or want to think about the fact he is now Monster Boss in Tim’s head, so he ignores it in favor of turning away, grabbing the last and dropping piecemeal books from the shelves in it. 

“Jon?” Hmm, this one is old but practically fictional with how much ended up embellished and twisted, and the writer had been a fucking berk besides. “Jon. Sims. Boss.” Who just kept centuries of correspondence on their office shelf? Did Magnus not expect anyone to get curious? Did he expect the parchment to  _ keep  _ just because it was about the Powers? “JONATHAN!”

“Yes, Tim?”

Tim bounces the boxes in his arms, making the tapes rattle, and gives him a very, very flat look. “Why the hell are we ransacking Elias’ office?”

Jon pauses. 

“It’s easier than talking?”

* * *

They don’t make him talk anymore, which is a step better than what he predicted. Martin and Tim had, however, shared a look before simultaneously turning heel and hurrying to the Archives, making Jon follow them down trying to figure out what they’d been thinking until they dropped the boxes on the nearest flat surface they saw.

And then they manhandled him onto the Tube and forced his head between his knees when abruptly Everything was There and Jon hadn’t been able to shut it off the shock wasn’t a blanket it was a choker and he didn't want to Know he didn’t want to See he didn’t want to  **HEAR-**

They are in Tim’s apartment. Jonathan’s been here before. A few times. Before the Archives and a bit into Research, he’d loosened enough to just follow the other home and pass out after pub nights. Except Tim isn’t there Jon could tell, where is he-?

_ -Rummaging around the flat trying to think of where Jon would stash the bloody things and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking but he wasn’t screaming and he wasn’t crying so he was fine for now he could blunt his nails on himself later fuck fuck fuck- _

_ -the fucking kitchen counter? Sims what the fuck, full too-? _

There’s tea in his hands. Jon stares down at it and knows it’s green from the smell and Knows it’s a bit over-brewed but not by much Martin just isn’t used to the brand or leaf, honest slip-up though it’s making him cringe into his sweater and berate himself-

“Thank you for the tea.”

Martin stares at him blankly from where he’s halfway through twisting his hands into his hem. Jon stares blankly back, because he doesn’t know how this goes. 

“You’ve never thanked me for tea before.”

“It seemed like you were avoiding doing your work and not just untrained,” Jon replies before immediately regretting it and multiple other decisions in his life. “Please don’t ask how I know that, it came with the eyes. I don’t- a degree isn’t important to me, Martin. I just wish I’d known sooner so you could have been properly taught instead of stuck improvising.”

Martin had been ashy and progressively more bug-eyed during that tiny speech and finally settled on a sort of astonished disbelief. Jon just shrugs and grimaces at him because well, there isn’t much a way to prove that he  _ isn’t  _ that much of a prick, considering their interactions.

God, he wishes Georgie were here.

“Right,” Martin says slowly, “I- okay. Good to know. I. Think I’ll go pour a cuppa for myself, since we’re still waiting for Tim to get back.”

Tim’s about ten minutes out, which Jon doesn’t tell him, and he’d rushed out to get Jon’s anxiety medication and a few changes of clothes and possibly a knife, which he doesn’t ask about. He doesn’t need to, and asking  _ why _ \- well.

Bit pointless, that.

* * *

The institute’s closed up, for days at least. Calls are redirecting to Rosie and select members of Research and Storage are allowed in to make sure no terrifying vortex of supernatural opens up thanks to their shenanigans, but everything else will stay quiet and cold. No one’s going to come in willingly anyhow with the email Red in HR sent out and they’d felt hysterically amused the whole time they drafted it but that’s just sort of the attitude you build up at the Institute-

“I’m scared.”

Tim is sprawled on his couch and pressed into Martin, who seems comfortable or well into bearing it. Jon’s hunched in a ratty armchair. They’ve both changed their clothes. He is still holding his tea.

They look at him. They are both scared. Tim saw one of his longtime friends morph into an abomination and die in agony today. Martin saw a monster attack them, dealt with seeming mental breakdowns from both his bosses. The woman on the cooking show continues to dice scallions as she smiles at the camera and talks. Jon’s eyes are still closed.

They don’t ask why. He doesn’t continue. The words feel lodged in his throat, the concepts feel caged in his brain, rattling around without use to agitate him. It’s been easier to keep his hands clenched around the mug and deconstruct the composition of  _ Allium Cepa  _ than it has to detangle them. __

Silently, Tim holds up the arm that isn’t trapped between him and Martin. Jon does not want to let go of his tea. He doesn't want to do much of anything, but that in itself is a bad idea and he Knows what isolation can do, he knows how he’d been thinking just this morning before the universe cracked the yolk of his soul, and Jon is very tired and Tim is very comfortable. He settles underneath. It can’t be comfortable with how boney his shoulders are.

The hostess is adding the scallions to her pot now. There’s a good spread of vegetables already inside and she’s got a chicken in the oven with light seasoning. It’ll come out dry but she’ll smile as she eats it because she isn’t paid to be honest.

“I’m sorry.” Tim’s hand tightens on Jon’s shoulder, infinitesimal. Neither two say anything. Jon’s throat is too dry, his face is finally aching and itching and burning from the abrupt and drastic warping, he’s starting to get hungry now that he’s come down and all he can think of is the fucking transfer request forms he had filled out, excited and arrogant and so out of the fucking loop he was on the other bike entirely.

“Pretty sure all of this is on Evil Elias,” Tim says mildly. His hand stays tight. “It’s not your fault, Jon.”

“Oh.”

Well. He won’t be saying that when they finally know, but it does make Jon cry like a toddler in the meanwhile.

* * *

Jon falls asleep and dreams of apples and Knows Tim’s dreaming about Danny and Martin’s dreaming about the tunnels. There are spurts of waking up and falling back asleep, sometimes someone gets up, but in general it is quiet. They are all there, they are alive, they are them. They wake up and no one is missing or replaced.

They finally get up round nine. Martin won’t look either of them in the eye, Tim’s acting as casual as a shoplifter, and Jon really is just a bit tired of existence as he crushes five ibuprofen into some water. They both stare at him like he just married a rat and declared himself the Queen.

“I grew five eyes in the span of maybe seconds.”

They both pointedly Do Not Look at him. Bloody idiots. Martin is, at least, a good cook, though mostly because of caring for his mother, doing it when he was stressed, trying to distract himself-

“It’s like colours.” 

They both blink at him while the eggs hiss in the pan.

“The… Entities you mentioned yesterday, yeah?”

He’s mentioned them yesterday? Hm.

“Yes. Except you’ve got fourteen or so colours most people don’t know about, some people do, and a few religiously worship.” 

Tim’s hunched over a mug of coffee and changed into pajamas because why not at this point. Jon can recognise the shirt from their old trivia nights, something for a band. He’d kill trivia night now if he went. He kicks this thought away in favour of watching Tim squint, now at his face because it seems Jon not liking The Eye Thing either means he can tolerate it.

“And  _ you  _ serve one and so do we.”

“Technically.”

“Sure, technically, yeah. And it involves eyes?”

_ Eyes, cameras, mirrors, pictures, anything that watches, sees, records, remembers. _ Jon shoves of forkful of omelette into his mouth. Not too much pepper, an ungodly amount of cheese and tomato, he thought? It tastes good.

“It Knows You, The Ceaseless Watcher. It revolves around, er, watching, recording things and understanding. Or not, considering some of our statements.”

Martin and Tim trade looks. Jon ignores them and conversation in favour of shovelling eggs into his face and there is a lot that can be taken away from just that, both right and wrong, and he waits for them to finish Taking Away while eggs finish and they all eat. Idly, he thinks that maybe he should get into contact with Georgie. She’d want to know this, all things considered.

“And this lead to Elias tearing his eyes out. And you growing more.” Martin pushes his glasses up. “What was that, some transfer of power or something? Was it  _ supposed  _ to be that horrifying?”

“Yes, actually.” 

They stare at him. He stares at them. He, as always, folds first and clears his throat, glancing away. Does Tim have any- yes he  _ does _ ,  _ Tim why do you have a whole whiteboard in your spare room? Why is the only thing on it a shitty horse drawing- _

They get the whiteboard. Jon Does Not question Tim’s drawing skills and Tim defends his majestic five-legged steed nicknamed Daiquiri. Daiquiri dies a quick death in favour of fourteen bullet points, written with cramped letters and far too many loops.

And then Jon settles in and explains that, why yes,  _ the Powers that Be with immense control over humanity do spend most of their time feeding off humans’ pant-shitting terror and making people into their little Power Fingers, isn’t that fun? _

No. Very much not.

* * *

“So. The shock thing I get, you being weird, but. How does us raiding Elias’ office tie in?”

“Oh that was because I wanted to destroy it a little. Jonah was a right prick.”

"Excuse me?"

"What? Oh, right. Those allusions Elias kept making to a greater evil were about Jonah Magnus. He was possessing him through his eyes."

“ _ Excuse me?” _

* * *

They- stay. In Tim’s flat. It’s easier than going back their own and being left to their own thoughts, worries, fears. It’s easier to stay than put on a brave face and wait to tread back into the former- disguised- cage. 

Jon tells Tim about the Circus when Martin goes to grab clothes and necessities. He apologizes for bringing it and David up in the first place, knows he shouldn’t Know or have an inkling or even fucking suspect, but this is the lot they’ve managed to drawn. He says there are statements related to it, ones logged already and waiting in the piles still. He says he’s sorry and that he doesn’t know how the loss of family feels like, but he knows the horror of thinking you’re responsible for someone else’s demise. Mister Spider looms over him always, much as he escaped the Web.

Tim is quiet and still before he says thanks. Small and bitter, but he sees the offer for what it is. If they come across more of the Circus- of the I Do Not Know You, well.

They can figure out ways to take care of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i know where im going with this? no  
> do i want to thoroughly outline this? also no we die like corruption avatars


	4. Chapter 4

Elias does not look very small or weak or tired or any sort of scared in his hospital bed. He doesn't look amused or entertained either, which is a step up from how Magnus would have acted. He looks bored if anything, the resigned sort that comes with having to wait three hours in A&E or plan the year's budget to the dot. Jon would feel awkward sitting by his side if it weren't for the Awareness that Elias is not, in fact, about to backhandedly insult him at any moment.

He does manage to look at him with eerie accuracy for a blind man. But eerieness is just their kind's default state.

"I have no clue what happens now," The blond had said the moment the nurse left the room. Jon had made an agreeing noise and here they are now. Tim and Martin are doing- something- _They're talking to Sasha's parents saying there was a workplace accident and her parents don't comprehend don't believe but her mother is Touched and she does not disbelieve_ \- so it's just him.

"Will you still be heading the Institute?" Jon asks.

"It does pay well," Elias muses, "though I'm not sure I want to deal with the board now that I'm not supernaturally forced to at knifepoint. I also don't have the Eyes anymore for it."

"Fuck Jonah Magnus," Jon mutters.

"Fuck Jonny Magnum," Elias echoes. "Would you-"

"I've only been an employee three years and the whole board is made of pasty, middle-aged white men."

"Fair enough." They sit in silence for a time, attentions wandering. Jon doesn't know what Elias thinks of, if he worries or contemplates or sits in a fugue; blinding himself was effective in ridding him of more than just Magnus. Jon thinks of the empty halls and disorganized Archives, of the headquarters that are raising eyes from their work after the ripples, of the way Tim is leaning on Martin in the tube and mumbling about tunnels and mistakes.

"I don't know who I am anymore," Elias says abruptly, without emotion. Jon can't say anything in response to that. He's trying to convince himself he doesn't feel the same way.

* * *

There is another email from Red from HR, with additions tacked on from both Rosie and Elias himself. The initial message is a business-like, flowery, "Please return to work by X day, if any exceptions or counselling are needed please contact Human Resources by X time and we cannot wait to see you again in this hellhole of an institute!"

Rosie's addition is a thinly-veiled threat that if anyone speaks of what happened as anything but an unfortunate accident, she will ensure their vacation requests don't see the light of day and they suffer from each and every training session possible.

Elias' gives what may be a threat, reassurance, or proposal, and is in actuality complete bullshit written to confuse everyone present.

Business as usual, essentially.

The Archives team files back through cautiously, full-aware that it isn't business as usual and also still sort of remembering the abomination that died in their bullpen. Possibly not even the first. Fascinating!

Jon hyperventilates into a bag for ten minutes after he's assailed with all the shit Gertrude got up to. He did not want to know any of this, but the Eye is indiscriminate in how it rewards him.

"What do we do now?"

Martin's sitting at his desk looking very lost, which admittedly isn't too off from normal, but the panic in his eyes is existential this time and can't be wiped away with tea and looking at Jon- oh he was going to stop there well then.

"Jack shit?" Tim suggests. He has his feet perched on his desk and youtube pulled up, watching someone stick a chicken head on a vacuum. Jon idly wonders if the Spiral could infect people benignly.

"Martin, you are getting training so you're act- so you-." Jon pauses. "I'm giving you my old notes and taking you off refiling until you're trained instead of just sinking or swimming." Martin blinks. Tim gives Jon a thumbs-up, which isn't appreciated. "Tim, you're filing the false statements." 

"Sorry, you expect me to actually work?" Tim's voice is light but has a tense undercurrent, sharp as a knife that Jon can't help but reciprocate. "I was under the impression that our job was basically a massive farce to use us as sacrifices."

Jon flounders. There's a twitch in his third eye and an eyelash in the second. "You're welcome to listen to whatever you want and take breaks when you want, since they're fake?" He- asks, he asks. Tim raises a brow. Jon slumps. "The Archives being this disorganized is like a slipped disc for me and I would appreciate the help while I try to put it to rights."

There's a quiet moment while they stare at each other before Tim sighs and Jon Knows he's folded. He gives him a small, grateful smile and doesn't dwell on how the other men twitch. Times are interesting enough right now.

* * *

There's a lighter in his desk with a cobweb pattern. Jon contemplates it before opening the trapdoor and chucking it down the tunnel.

* * *

It almost feels like life hasn't changed since he picked up the book (which has been relegated to a shelf at the very back of the Archives, touched only with a pair of rubber tongs and covered in bubble wrap) but very much in fact Has. So much that it feels like Jon's accidentally stepped through the wrong door like poor Miss Richardson, who keeps wandering through migraine-inducing hallways on her weeknights. She's managing to get out sooner each time, which is something at least. Now if only Michael would stop fucking with her-

Jon stops. He tilts his head, staring at the shitty motivational poster he could see on the wall through his office door window. The cat frowning at a cup of coffee does not, unfortunately, help the waves of immense exasperation he is currently feeling, but it does sound better than just staring at the wall.

He's still doing it when Martin knocks and walks in tea, stopping and looking at him oddly.

"Jon, are you… alright?"

"The Book," he says tonelessly. Martin nods because they all know Which Book he means.

"Ye-es? What about it, are you scared it's not secure enough?"

"The Book," he repeats, "Michael appears, in my office, gleefully hurts me before disappearing, and not a week later a book appears that is intentionally confusing and I, the _archivist_ with a _peer-reviewed_ _paper_ on _CURSED BOOKS_ , fucking _**PICKED IT UP**_ , MARTIN WHY AM I THE ARCHIVIST DID JONAH MAGNUS HAVE NO COMMON SENSE IN HIS CHAUVINIST, BACKWARDS MIND-"

"Oh Christ- _TIM_ -"

Jon ends up sandwiched under the arm of a too calm and mildly amused Tim and watches victorian sewing videos for two hours. It is, admittedly, better than reading aloud a story of some poor girl getting tag-teamed by the Stranger and the Lonely, and Tim is very large and warm.

He ends up falling asleep until Elias trips down the stairs rambling about werewolves. He reeks of weed and anxiety sweat.

Of course.

* * *

Jon tries to use the tube exactly two times after they head back to the Institute. Both end with him with his head between his knees, seeing hearing Knowing too much _that little girl is touched by the Spiral and it's not obvious but the way her mind warps will worsen that man is two steps from bankruptcy that woman's been seeing another where her parents won't find out that person will fall to the Lonely soon and more and more and more andm o **r e**_

He doesn't use the tube again. The cot in the Archives is uncomfortable, but it is quiet.

* * *

Elias takes to falling down the stairs and ranting at them for hours. Jon supposes he's doing it instead of whatever the hell Magnus did. It works as an odd tension-dispeller for when he's been reading too many statements at once or Martin's getting overwhelmed or Tim too frustrated.

Jon's _pretty_ sure he's doing it on purpose.

* * *

In all the bullshit that has been going on, Jon had maybe forgotten some things. Inconsequential for some, Very Bad for an abominable creature of It Watched with a decidedly inhuman disappearance.

Jon keeps his hands high in the air as Basira points a gun she probably shouldn't have at him and feels very, very tired. He would rather be reading statements or sitting o- next to Tim or really anything but this.

His four extra eyes are closed now, though it doesn't help much.

"You implied you were human," Basira says tensely. Jon Does Not roll his eyes.

"I work here. Humanity has a fifty-fifty chance of being temporary," he replies blandly. Basira twitches. "Could you please- _Tim_? _Martin_?"

"You in a lovers' spat, bossm- oh." Tim squints at them over Basira's shoulder. He is out of elbowing vicinity, which is good because Basira knows how to make you regret your life choices. She's making Jon regret his right now, in fact. "Officer, could you please not shoot Jon? He's pretty much the only decent Spooky around here."

Basira tilts her head to reply, keeping Jon in her sights, which is smart. It becomes less smart when Martin realizes just what Tim said and makes a strangled, outraged noise and proceeds to barrel towards them, tries to stop before he hits Tim, fails, and ultimately slams full-speed into both Tim and Basira.

Basira practices trigger safety, but cannot in fact count for almost thirty stone of Man ramming into her back. 

Fingers fumble, catch the trigger. The gun goes off.

Jon stares at the hole in his chest and feels vaguely affronted. His sweater is going to look strange no matter how he sews it up now.

* * *

Officer Hussain takes in everything much quicker than Tim and Martin had. Probably because of the lack of shock.

Shock which the two have again, since Jon is sitting in the bullpen with a chest wound and placidly explaining The Dread Fears to his would-be killer. Tim has yet to actually move from his spot right next to Jon, which is alright. Martin's crying in the loo which is less alright, horrified and guilty that he could have basically killed Jon in a less crazy universe, which makes Jon want to cry because the last person to give that much a shit was Georgie and he feels guilty himself and it has been a very, very long month.

"This… puts a lot of things into perspective," Basira says after he's finished covering the fourteen for the second time. Jon hums leaning back.

"Yes, probably. You're almost aligned yourself actually, what with your closeness to Detective Tonner."

"Excuse me?"

Jon blinks at her sharp tone, blinks at Tim's strangled snort, and then realises.

"Oh goddamnit, not again." 


End file.
